


Two Solitudes

by Rena



Series: Two Solitudes [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-17
Updated: 2013-06-17
Packaged: 2017-12-15 07:55:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/847136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rena/pseuds/Rena
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the end, Stiles thinks, they were always going to end up here. Broken people gravitate towards each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two Solitudes

****

****

****

In the end, Stiles thinks, they were always going to end up here. He should’ve known, straight from the beginning. It’s Derek’s heavenly looks and his own self-consciousness in his, well, in his everything, that prompted him to convince himself that he and Derek would never ever happen, but in the end....

In the end, they’re two lonely souls. Broken people gravitate towards each other. Maybe to examine the jarred edges of the other’s pieces and tell themselves that they’re not the most fucked-up person in the world, that there’re others who are more broken than they are. Maybe because they like thinking they’re not alone in their fucked-upness. Maybe because they enjoy breaking other apart even further. Maybe because everyone is drawn towards what’s beautiful and broken.

It doesn’t matter. Whatever the reasons, the result stays the same.

**∞**

It’s a slow summer, languid and hot days stretching and drawing out the hours, and Stiles tries to not drown in his boredom. It’s too hot and muggy to do much, the humid air giving him a near constant headache. The air conditioning in his room is broken, so every movement makes him break into a sweat, and running his laptop or console all day long like he planned to, wasting away the time with mindless gaming and internet surfing, only makes the heat worse. He’s not fond of masochism, so he decides against torturing himself with heat, instead opting to go down the boredom route.

The first couple of days, he lies on the couch and watches reruns of the X-Files, only getting up to go to the kitchen or bathroom, and occasionally checks his phone. There’s the sporadic text from Lydia, with whom he’s building a tentative friendship now that she is in the knows about the supernatural, but she’s still a little angry at him for lying to her and also prefers to spend her free time with Jackson before she leaves for a three-week vacation on Barbados with her parents. Stiles can’t blame her for having priorities.

He doesn’t really hear anything from Scott, which he also can’t fault his best friend for – summer school and trying to mend his relationship with his mother are very honourable goals, and of course Stiles prefers having to do without his friend for a few weeks to Scott being held back and being separated from each other for the rest of their high school career – but it’s still weird. He hasn’t gone more than a week without seeing Scott since they met each other in preschool and ever since they got their own cell phone there hasn’t been a single day when they didn’t hear anything from each other.

Until now.   

And Stiles gets it, he does; between school and work and his mum Scott doesn’t have time to hang out with him, but it _sucks._ Stiles has never minded not having many friends, as much as he bemoaned his lack of popularity with his classmates, because at least the one friend he does have has always, unfailingly, been there for him, always available, always reliable (recent failings due to sudden contraction of lycanthropy aside. It’s cool. They hugged it out).

With his dad out of the house more often than not, pulling double-shift after double-shift because after what he’s dubbed the Matt And The Kanima Disaster the station is still woefully understaffed, the lack of Scott and the impossibility of killing his brain cells staring at his computer screen without getting a heat stroke, Stiles doesn’t really know what to do with himself.

He makes a mental check-list of people he’s talked to lately and goes through it, contemplating the likeliness of them hanging out with him.

Scott: impossible due to other commitments.

Lydia: rather unlikely, because she has no time and will be gone soon.

Allison: impossible, since she’s in France. Also, thanks but no thanks, he’s not going anywhere near the Argents again until he can get a good night’s sleep without dreaming of Gerard beating him up, no matter how much Allison seems to regret what happened.

Danny: extremely unlikely, since he doesn’t even like Stiles.

Jackson: ahahaha, _no_. Also, Stiles would rather strangle himself than hang out with that dickwad, even if Lydia has hinted that his parents are rather determined to send him to some extended family in London and he might be gone permanently soon.

Erica: still missing.

Boyd: still missing.

Isaac: ugh. Also not one of Stiles’ favourite people, so he’d rather not contact him. No to mention he’d probably refuse to hang out with Stiles anyway.

Derek: definitely won’t want to hang out with him since he’s always annoyed by Stiles, but on the other hand, he’s never followed up on his threats of maiming and mangling, no matter how much Stiles pissed him off, so he might not kick him out if Stiles showed up on his doorstep. And Stiles knows he’s still searching for Erica and Boyd; Stiles told him about them being held by the Argents, after...well, _after_ , and he knows Chris claims to have let them go and that they still haven’t returned. Derek could probably need help with that, and it would give Stiles something to do, with the additional bonus of getting a kick out of riling Derek up.

It’s a win-win.

Stiles drives up to the decrepit remains of the Hale house on a sweltering Wednesday evening in the middle of June, windows rolled down as to not be smothered by the stifling heat that’s cooked up in the burning sun. When he kills the engine, the jeep rumbling to silence, there’s no one to be seen. He expects Derek to step out of the front door, or maybe show up right behind him just to scare him shitless, but nothing happens although Derek’s camaro is parked right next to Stiles’ car.

He figures the alpha is ranging the woods, trying to find any signs of life of Erica and Boyd. Personally, he thinks the chances aren’t too great – they have been missing for over six weeks already, so either they don’t want to be found or –

He doesn’t let himself think about the alternative. Instead, he plops down on the front stairs, where the surrounding trees offer some most welcome shadows. He doesn’t dare poking around the house, despite his insatiable curiosity and love of the macabre. Derek might take his head off, or at the very least tell him to get lost, which would be the opposite of what he aims for. Believe it or not, Stiles can control himself when he wants to.

After about five minutes of wiggling his knee and twisting and untwisting his fingers, he really starts to regret not bringing a book, or at least his iPod. He could drive back to his house, of course, and get something to keep him entertained, but the day is drawing to an end, dusk creeping closer, and he doesn’t want to miss Derek when he decides to call it a day and calls off the search for the night. So Stiles leans back, wriggles around until he finds a vaguely comfortable position and hurls away the stone digging into the small of his back and stares up into the sky, lets himself get lost in the hyperactive buzz of his brain.

He startles awake when someone kicks him into his soles, almost hits Derek in the face with his flailing arms. “Dude,” he says accusingly, glowering at the werewolf looming over him.

Of course, Derek is utterly immune to his indignation. He levels Stiles with a look that is mildly curious and a lot unimpressed. “What are you doing here?”

“Just so you know, the creeper shtick is never cool, not even for you,” Stiles informs him and scrambles to his feet, brushes of the dirt and twigs sticking to his clothes.

Derek doesn’t say anything, just raises one eyebrow expectantly, arms crossed in front of his chest. It strikes Stiles, suddenly, how tired and worn out he looks. He’s tan and unhurt, and still he looked healthier when he was bleeding all over Stiles’ passenger seat, weird blue smoke rising from the bullet wound in his arm and angry black liquid coursing through his veins.

“Nothing yet?” he asks.

Derek shakes his head.

“Can I help?”

“Why?” The counter question is instantaneous. It’s 100 percent matter-of-fact, no suspicion behind it, and that’s just another thing that tips Stiles off about how bad things really are. Derek will always second-guess anyone’s motives for helping him, but he doesn’t sound like he cares if Stiles plans to stab him in the back at all.

Stiles gives a half-hearted shrug. “I have nothing else to do,” he admits. “Figured you might need help.”

Derek accepts the unconvincing but truthful explanation with a curt nod.

“Want to fill me in on what you know so far?”

“Don’t you have to be home soon?”

“Curfew’s not until eleven,” Stiles says. “We still got plenty of time. But my dad’s working anyway, he won’t notice.”

Derek nods again, reaches into his pocket and fishes for his keys. “Meet me at my place. Park in the back, I don’t need your father showing up on my doorstep and asking me why his son’s car was parked in front of my apartment building.”

“Fair enough,” Stiles says, and walks over to his jeep. “You gonna tell me about that stylish graffiti suddenly adorning your front door, too? Have you discovered your artistic talents or is that something I should be worried about?”

The lack of answer tells him all he needs to know.

Well, fuck.

He drives behind Derek, keeping up the pretence that he hadn’t checked the police records to find out the address of Derek’s loft weeks ago. He doubts he fools Derek, but so what. Derek waits for him by the back door, which is probably overdoing it with the secrecy – it’s not like he cared about sneaking around and not being seen with teenagers before – but Stiles doesn’t really mind. Anything that doesn’t get him into further trouble with his dad is good.

He follows Derek up the stairs, waits patiently while the werewolf fumbles with the keys a little and whistles appreciatively upon entering. Derek’s loft is _huge_. It’s not exactly clean and calling the furnishing Spartan would be an understatement, but it’s got four walls (okay, more like three and a half but whatever, he’s not a nitpicker) and a roof that’s not leaking and a huge wall of windows that gives an excellent of view of the district. 

“Nice digs,” he says, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “Also, awesome bed. Must be way easier to get some Z’s than in that gross subway station.”

“It’s more comfortable than a mouldy mattress or seats on public transport,” Derek shrugs. It sounds vaguely evasive, like he doesn’t get much sleep anyway.

Stiles isn’t surprised. “So,” he says when the silence grows a little too heavy, too pointed for his taste. “Boyd and Erica?”

Derek pulls out a map of Beacon Hills and its surroundings, meticulously divided into perfectly square parts. Some of them are crossed out, some of them have red markers on them. “We don’t know much,” he says quietly and points to the crossed out sections. “These are the areas we’ve already searched. No sign of them. The red spots indicate where we’ve caught their scent, if only for a bit, or found pieces of clothing or -”

“Blood?” Stiles guesses.

“Yeah.” Derek looks grim. “This is where they were taken.”

Stiles contemplates the map, the circles, the Xs, the fine lines connecting everything. There’s no pattern that he can see. “Are you sure they were taken?”

“No, I’m sure they just enjoyed bleeding all over the forest floor,” Derek says sharply. “Also, the scent vanishes after that, and they can’t just have disappeared. Scents and clothes pop up at random places, again, without any trail leading there at all, and the scents aren’t fresh. They’re trying to throw us off the search. Not to mention that they would’ve called Isaac to tell him they were safe.”

Not Derek. Isaac. Stiles files that piece of information away carefully, although he doesn’t know why. Maybe because Erica and Boyd decided to bail on Derek, and yet here he is looking for them with a desperation that borders on a madman’s. “Okay,” he says, straightening up. “I guess that brings us to the more important and unpleasant question of who ‘they’ are.”

“A rival pack.”

Stiles waits a beat, but Derek doesn’t follow that chunk of information up with anything useful. “Dude,” he says, exasperated, “a little more than that would be helpful.”

“I don’t know much yet,” Derek admits grudgingly. “And trust me, you don’t want to know. You wanna help looking for Erica and Boyd? Fine. That’s good. But don’t get tangled up with that any more. I don’t need to worry about anyone else getting hurt again.”

Stiles nods. He can’t deny he’s a little bummed about the implication that he’s just a squishy human, but on the other hand he really doesn’t mind not getting the shit beat out of him again, so keeping a little distance from the werewolf shenanigans, especially if they involve maiming and bloodthirstiness, seems like a good idea. And it almost sounds like Derek cares, reminds him of a frantic voice over a grainy cell phone line telling him to get out, of a warm and steady hand on his chest pushing him away, of the brokenness on his face upon seeing Jackson’s body lying motionless on the ground, of kaleidoscope eyes lingering on the bruises decorating his cheekbone with an intensity that made his stomach flip.

It’s strange, being reminded that Derek isn’t always a jerk with a penchant for leather and a “let’s go kill stuff” attitude.

He wonders, for a moment, if he should just stay out of it, go back to simmering in boredom at his house, but he looks at Derek, whose cockiness is all but gone, replaced with a weariness that is only very barely hidden behind a mask of indifference. He’s seen that expression before; it’s the expression of someone who’s already given himself up, who knows his days are numbered and the only reason to keep going and not just give up is because there are people you care about that you want to protect.

It’s a punch in the gut, how much it reminds him of the look on his mother’s face when she thought he wasn’t looking. It makes him want to scream, to run the other way. It makes him want to be there for Derek, because no one should be alone in this.

“So,” he says, drawing a deep breath, “what do you want me to do?”

**∞**

That’s how it really begins, the lazy, hot summer that every teenager dreams of. Except his version involves less parties and a lot more traipsing around the woods with Derek walking silently beside him, tense and alert. He refuses to let Stiles walk alone, sends Isaac off with Peter and actually mostly insists he do some research from his computer to try and find possible hiding spots that Derek and the remnants of his pack can search.

Sometimes Stiles will fill the silence with whatever random thought passes his mind, and surprisingly, Derek will indulge him, let him ramble and actually offer some snarky commentary that he can bounce a conversation off. Sometimes Stiles will say nothing at all for hours, and neither will Derek, and he’ll find that he doesn’t mind the silence when he’s not alone in it. It’s all surprisingly peaceful and companionable.

They quickly fall into a rhythm. Stiles makes a point of being at home whenever the sheriff is, but the minute he’s out the door, he gathers up his stuff, packs up his laptop and drives to Derek’s loft, sits at the long table in the middle of the room with his feet propped up on the stool, revelling in the chill that the solid stone walls of the apartment provides. He and Derek will research for a bit – or rather, Derek will spend his time staring at the map and Stiles will use all his google-fu and still come up empty – and then make a few rounds to see if there’s any news out in the woods or the city.

They don’t find anything, and while Stiles is worried, there’s also a part of him that doesn’t mind. No news is better than bad news, and he’ll take whatever little time off he gets.

Luckily, he doesn’t see anyone else much. He’d never thought there’d be a time when he’d be happy about spending some alone time with Derek that doesn’t involve him being about to die a gruesome death and Derek being there to save his ass, but that’s how it is. Isaac seems to spend as little time in the loft as possible, and Stiles has the impression that Peter comes and goes as he pleases. There’s no little tension every time he does decide to linger, so he suspects that’s partly why Isaac steers clear, and honestly, who can fault him for being creeped out by an asshole zombie?

All in all, it’s not a bad way of spending the time. It doesn’t beat hanging out and gaming with Scott, but it’s nice. He likes the way Derek’s shoulders seem to relax just a little when Stiles comes around, gets enraptures by the quirk of Derek’s lips when Stiles says something that amuses him. He tries not to think about how few and far between these moments are.

He also tries to not think about how easy it is to let his own mask slip, to give up the play and admit that he’s not happy and careless all the time. Sometimes he can feel Derek’s eyes on him, contemplative, but the alpha doesn’t hover, doesn’t pry, just seems to accept that everyone is a little broken and sometimes there’s just no one to pick up the pieces.

It’s not until Derek makes Stiles laugh for the first time, actual, genuine laughter that makes him double over because his belly hurts, and Derek looks at him like he’s never seen him before, that he realises where they’re headed.

 _“Oh,”_ he thinks vaguely, and smiles.

**∞**

He drives over to Derek’s unscheduled that night, when his dad leaves for yet another graveyard shift. Derek doesn’t look thrilled, which probably means he is well aware that Stiles noticed, but he steps aside to let him in anyway.

“Why are you here, Stiles?” he asks brusquely.

As if he doesn’t know. Stiles thinks he could play coy, but that’s never really been his forte. He’s more the type to bulldoze any subtlety and head straight for his goal. “Because out there in the woods today it seemed like you were going to kiss me,” he says, ignoring the sudden defensiveness that Derek displays. “I’d like it if you did that.”

Derek gets a pinched look on his face, and Stiles knows, he just knows that he’s going to be shot down, so he barrels on. He’s not stupid, he knows Derek’s not in love with him. He might think he has a nice mouth, or maybe it’s just that Stiles is the only one who willingly spends time around him that’s sparked his attraction, but it’s not more. It can’t be more, for someone who’s already given himself up. “It doesn’t have to be a permanent thing,” he continues. “No feelings or anything. Just – it’s summer, school’s out, no one will know.”

Sex is good. He’ll take sex if he can have it.

Especially with Derek. He’s not sure they’re even real friends yet, which means that falling into bed with each other won’t make things awkward. They’re two grown-up people who can admit their physical attraction to each other and act on it, and then go separate ways. It’s actually perfect.

Derek crosses his arms in front of his chest, sardonic smile on his lips. “So what you want is a meaningless, no-strings-attached summer fling.”

“Exactly,” Stiles confirms, nodding enthusiastically. “Just sex, only until school starts again. Multiple orgasms, zero complications. Everyone goes home happy. Deal?”

For a moment, he thinks Derek will send him away, but then he nods. “Okay,” he says quietly, slowly. “Only until Labour Day.” The implication ‘if I make it that long’ lingers heavy in the air between them.

Stiles blinks, chooses to ignore it. “You know when school starts again?” he asks.

“Isaac,” Derek says in way of explanation. Of course. Stiles really shouldn’t be surprised by the extent of Derek’s level of caring anymore, regardless of how hidden his affections may be.

“Huh. Okay. Until Labour Day,” he says, hesitates, scratches his chin. “Uh, would you –“

Derek rolls his eyes, grabs him by his wrists and tugs him close.

**∞**

Turns out, his first time is nothing like he’d imagined. It’s not necessarily the guy part, not even the Derek part (okay, a huge fucking part of what takes him by surprise is that it’s with Derek), it’s more the lack of franticness. When he’d imagined his first time, he’d assumed there’d be a lot of fumbling and heated kisses and at least one embarrassing incident of creaming his pants.

Instead, it’s slow and unhurried and, of course, super fucking intense. Stiles thinks there isn’t anything Derek does half-assed, and being in the focus of Derek Hale’s unadulterated and undivided attention is equal parts terrifying and glorious. Derek kisses like his life depends on precision and he seems to take pleasure in torturing Stiles by drawing things out, like a cat who plays with its prey before devouring it.

Stiles doesn’t mind one bit.

He doesn’t even care that he begs and writhes and pleads as Derek explores every inch of his body, because Derek looks at him with eyes darkened with desire, like he enjoys every sound coming out of Stiles mouth, and that makes it easier to remove the steady, hard grip he has on his brain and just let go, let his thoughts fly free and don’t give a shit about which of these roll over his tongue. There’s still a lot of fumbling and awkwardness, mostly on his part – sex, he learns, is much more technical than he thought it’d be – but hey, Derek has super awesome werewolf reflexes and saves him from banging his head on the bed frame and falling flat on his ass when walking over to the bed, and there are mutual orgasms, which is awesome.

“So,” he says, staring at the high ceiling of Derek’s loft, wondering idly why anyone would want walls that high because _how the fuck would anyone get up there to change a light bulb_ , “I should probably get going.”

“Yeah,” Derek says, not moving from where he’s lying next to Stiles, face buried in the pillows, his hair sticking up in twenty different directions. It’s adorable. Stiles didn’t think anything about Derek could be adorable.

“Um, I’ll....see you tomorrow?” Stiles ventures, once he’s pulled up his jeans and pulled his shirt over his head.

“Yeah,” is all Derek says.

**∞**

If there’s one thing Stiles has learnt in the past days and weeks, it’s that despite all the odds, he and Derek work well together. And just as they’ve had no trouble falling into an easy rhythm with their search for the missing betas, it takes absolutely zero time to do the same in the bedroom. He doesn’t think it’s supposed to be that easy, to fit into each other’s spaces so effortlessly, to figure out what they both like so quickly.

Stiles quickly becomes addicted to it. For one, it’s sex, and damn, it’s so much better when it’s not just you and your hand. Secondly, it’s Derek, and no one would refuse touching that fine booty. And thirdly, there’s something perfect about the way their ragged edges complement and complete each other, how Stiles fits perfectly into the v of Derek’s legs, how his hands are made to curl around his jawline, how their mouths collide.

At first, it’s just an addition to their usual routine. They search for Erica and Boyd, try to gather as much information as they can, and then, before Stiles has to leave, they have a lot of enthusiastic, mind-blowing sex, after which Stiles pulls on his clothes and leaves for the night.

Mid-July brings an even more stifling heat, and then, finally, thunderstorms that try – and fail – to break the heat wave. It’s Thursday, just another day of endless, futile searching and the prospect of an empty, silent house to get home to when the rain beats down so hard it’s impossible to see any further than ten feet ahead of you, and Derek grabs Stiles’ wrist and says “don’t go out there.”

So Stiles settles back against the head rest, lets Derek move him until he’s got his back to Derek’s naked chest, seated comfortable between Derek’s legs and maybe he should be surprised when Derek tangles their fingers together, just above Stiles’ heart.

They watch the storm together, watch how the lightning cracks and throws ghostly shadows across the night sky, and pretend it doesn’t means anything.

**∞**

The next week, Stiles stays, after, without having a reason to.

“I’m tired,” he offers as an explanation, and, “my dad’s not home, he won’t notice.”

Derek doesn’t even shrug, just kisses his way up Stiles’ neck and makes him forget about the bone-deep exhaustion.

Stiles wakes to soft morning light filtering through the floor-deep windows, bathing Derek in shades of gold and red. He’s lying on his stomach, face once again half-buried in the pillows, mouth slack and expression peaceful, for the first time since Stiles met him. He allows himself to touch, because he _is_ allowed now, spends minutes just tracing the hard lines of Derek muscles and the perfect swirls of his triskelion tattoo. He knows Derek is awake, although he doesn’t stir, but eventually Derek cracks one eye open, looks at Stiles with an expression that is unguarded and raw and broken and –

Stiles is in so much trouble.

They don’t make it out of bed that day, and Derek doesn’t comment on it, so he figures it’s okay to go on pretending he’s not falling in love.

**∞**

By the time August rolls around, Stiles has resigned himself to not being able to walk away. They don’t talk about it – of fucking course they don’t – but it doesn’t feel like being fuck buddies anymore, and Stiles is surprisingly okay with that, if it wasn’t for the sword of Damocles still hanging above them. But hey, he’s a pro at compartmentalising and repressing dark thoughts, so he doesn’t let his mind stray to the dark lands where he shoved all his fears of Derek dying and their time running out, and instead focuses on all the little things that make his heart skip a beat, thrum against his sternum in a vain attempt to burst out of his chest even when Derek isn’t touching him.

He learns that Derek is one of those persons who gets up freakishly early but is not a morning person _at all_ , and trying to speak to him within the first hour of him leaving the bed almost makes him bit your head off. He learns that Derek, for all that he despises cleaning, is super OCD about everything in his kitchen, and putting the mugs in the wrong cupboard will make him have a minor mental breakdown. He learns that Derek is an amazing cook, when he puts his mind to it, that he can easily do one hundred push-ups with Stiles sitting cross-legged on his back, that he’s secretly a fan of good fantasy literature and geeks out surreptitiously over Game of Thrones. He learns how Derek likes his coffee, learns how to bicker amicably about the best superheroes for a solid hour, learns how to stay silent when Derek withdraws into the dark corners of his mind, to just hold his hand and be there for him when he needs him.

He learns all the way he can make Derek’s body arch into his, how he can draw out little broken noises from where Derek’s tucked his vulnerability under his ribcage and hidden it away, learns how to bury his fingers in Derek’s hair and hold on for dear life.

Stiles never wants it to stop.

**∞**

“Where are we going?” Derek grunts out, annoyed, but follows Stiles anyway.

Granted, it may not be the best idea to camp out in the middle of the woods during the night but fuck if Stiles cares. “Could you just shut up?”

“It’s funny that this sentence should come out of your mouth.”

“Fuck you,” Stiles says easily.

“Maybe later,” Derek smirks, and even after nearly two months of doing this, whatever it is, the casualty of the statement overwhelms Stiles.

“ _I could have this_ ,” he thinks fuzzily, “ _if our lives weren’t crazy and we weren’t about to die. I could have this_.” He thinks it’s fucking unfair, that life would present him with something like this only to taunt him with the impossibility of it, to take it away again. 

“I’m serious, Stiles, what are we doing here?”

“Perseids,” Stiles says.

Derek raises his eyebrows.

“Meteor showers, man,” Stiles says, punches Derek lightly in the shoulder. “They always appear in summer. Sightings go back as far as two thousand year, okay, and they should reach their peak tonight. Did you know there could be up to sixty meteors per hour?”

“You’re taking me out to star gaze,” Derek says flatly, “in the middle of nowhere, when there’s a pack of rabid werewolves prowling around town?”

Stiles shrugs. “You haven’t lived until you’ve lived with a little danger,” he replies. “And it’s not my fault the city lights are too bright to let us see the stars clearly. Not to mention, I’ve got my big bad wolf to protect me.”

Derek sighs. “You’re an idiot,” he tells Stiles but at the same time he wraps his arm around Stiles’ waist, presses a soft kiss to his neck and leads him into a different direction. He knows the preserve better than anyone, definitely better than Stiles, despite the time he’s spent walking around it all summer, and they quickly find a small, hidden clearing that allows them to watch the night sky with relatively little danger of being interrupted.

They lay down on the old blanket Stiles brought, the one that used to belong to his mother, the one she used to bring when she dragged Stiles and his father along for unscheduled picnics in the park or at the beach, and Stiles curls into Derek’s side, doesn’t think about how it doesn’t smell like her anymore, only stale and slightly mouldy, and instead focuses on the strong, steady beat of Derek’s heart beneath his ears.

“You’re supposed to make a wish,” he tells Derek, much later, the night sky ablaze with bright lights raining down on them.

“Better not to,” Derek says. “No point. There’s nothing up there that can make anything better. We’re alone in this.”

 _“We,”_ Stiles thinks. It makes his heart stutter stupidly. “ _That’s not so bad_.”

He squeezes Derek’s hand, and Derek squeezes back.

**∞**

 


End file.
